


Safecracking a Speciality

by Nny



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-16
Updated: 2011-05-16
Packaged: 2017-10-19 11:46:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The itinerant tutor, then, who looked baby-faced enough that the list of accomplishments slipped past bravado and into the absurd.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Safecracking a Speciality

John was sitting hunched on the cracked pavement, leaning back against the smeared front window of McDonalds and trying to fish a fifty pence piece out of his tea without burning himself. Sharp snipping movements with finger and thumb interspersed with swearing, low enough not to appall any pedestrians but creative and varied enough to show how often he used them in his head. His over-sized jumper had thumb-holes, admittedly, and he had essays due which always delayed shaving for a few days, but he really hadn't thought he looked as homeless as all _that_.

It was at least ten past, and his patience (and his coccyx) was starting to wear thin. He hadn't checked the ad thoroughly enough to see if 'punctuality' was one of the professed skills on offer from the itinerant tutor; he'd focused mainly on the offer of cheap driving lessons, with a quick smile in the direction of 'safe-cracking a speciality'. It was the sense of humour that had swung it, really; no one could possibly have mastered as many different disciplines as the small type had suggested. Heaving himself to his feet, John made his way over to a bin.

"Don't do that."

"What?"

The bloke who had spoken was hunched inside an enormous dull-coloured coat, not wearing it so much as occupying it, possibly with room for flatmates. The thin grey scarf he had wrapped twice around his neck, on the other hand, was barely long enough to tie a knot in and didn't manage to cover the expanse of aggressively-adams-appled pale skin.

"Here," he said, and grabbed the polystyrene cup out of John's hand. "You're not going to drink it?"

"Obviously," John said.

"You could have been fishing for an accompaniment."

"I am _not_ homeless!" John yelled, and then sent an embarrassed grin around at the shoppers who'd stopped to look at him. That seemed to worry them even _more_.

"No," the bloke said, giving him a quick considering look before fishing in his pockets. Extracting a pen, he held the cup over the bin and stabbed it quickly in the base, letting the liquid dribble steaming from the bottom of the cup. After a second the cup was binned, and John was holding a slightly damp fifty pence piece in one hand.

"It's that obvious I'm a student?" he asked, and the bloke shrugged unevenly, possibly hampered by the weight of his behemoth coat.

"To me."

"Thank you," he said insincerely, "thanks, that's just - " and then, belatedly remembering his manners, he stuck out his hand. "Er, John Watson."

"Yes," ignoring the hand completely. John flexed it a couple of times, uncomfortable, and then shoved it in his pocket.

"This would be the part where you traditionally offer your name in return," John said, with a trace of amusement. The bloke rolled his eyes, as though it ought to be _obvious_.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said.

"Oh!" The itinerant tutor, then, who looked baby-faced enough that the list of accomplishments slipped past bravado and into the absurd. "You're late."

"No," said with a shrug, "you looked busy. I didn't want to interrupt."

"I was busy waiting for _you_ ," John said, but received only a blank stare in return. "Right. Shall we - "

Sherlock started walking without bothering to respond, and John was only moderately surprised that he picked the right direction to find John's car.

John stumbled a little, trying to keep up with him; as young as Sherlock looked, he was significantly taller.

"You mentioned low prices," he said, since Sherlock didn't seem much of a one for small talk; "what are we talking, here? You can keep the 50p if it'll help," with a grin that went unnoticed and unreturned.

"I'll do it for a couple of the joints in your pocket," he said.

John's hand went to his right hand pocket, reflexively. "How did you know I - it's medicinal," he protested, without much hope of being believed.

"And you're a medical student," Sherlock said dryly, with a sidelong look. John drew himself up.

"Actually I _am_ a medical student."

"I know," Sherlock answered, with a slight frown. "I just said."

John shook his head slightly and increased his pace, mostly so that he would arrive first where his mum had dropped off his car, and wouldn't have to deal with the embarrassment of Sherlock assessing him and guessing the car that was his; he had the sneaking suspicion that Sherlock would manage it, and John really had no desire to spend hours fretting over what about him suggested that he would drive a little red Yugo. Aside from the fact, obviously, that he _did_.

Sherlock's only response was a minutely raised eyebrow. It felt somehow like a let down.

"You can drive her if you like," John offered, "get a feel for her before we head somewhere emptier so I can get in some practice."

Sherlock shrugged and climbed into the driver's seat; by the time John got around the car he had already adjusted the mirrors and pushed the seat back as far as it would go. He waited until John was settled and then clapped his thin, cold-reddened hands together.

"Right," he said. "How does this work?"

"What?" John asked, blankly.

"My brother won't let me drive his," Sherlock answered without looking at him, sharp eyes examining all the various knobs and dials.

"But - " John could feel himself gaping. "You said you could tutor me!"

"Relax," he answered. "I'll be brilliant in a minute. Aah," he said, discovering the ignition, and John went for the seatbelt rather than protest in the second he had before they squealed off - it seemed the more likely to make a difference.

*

When John finally emerged from the passenger seat, still giggling helplessly and inappropriately and mostly under his breath, Sherlock was already leaning against the front of the car and idly picking hay away from the headlights.

"I'm getting ready for a _driving test_ ," John managed, with voice still bubbling around the edges of the words and hands that wouldn't stop shaking, "not a bloody _police chase_."

"No harm in being prepared," Sherlock answered, mouth tilting in something not unlike a smile.

"It's only a couple of joints," John said, on another laugh. "Besides, it's - "

"Medicinal. You said." Sherlock looked distant for a moment, his face oddly blank. "That's why I want it."

"Oh?" John supplied, not really expecting anything in the way of an answer.

"Mother's not well," Sherlock said, and now his face was like a mask. "And the brother is at uni, which is diverting enough in its way." The mask broke, into something far more like a smile; John couldn't help but be charmed at how young it made him look. "Correcting the lectures does annoy him."

"Wait," John said, mind ticking over. "Wait, you _brother's_ at - how old _are_ you?"

"Fourteen," Sherlock answered, without hesitation. John's mouth dropped open.

" _Fourteen?_ You're not - you're not _legal_! Forget legal, you're not safe to _be with_!"

"Probably not." That? That was most definitely a smile. "But you cannot deny that I'm _fun_."


End file.
